All I Want For Christmas Is Customer Service at My Doctor’s Office

I have this crazy dream. It’s about how, when I make an appointment to see my doctor – my primary care physician, my radiologist, my orthopedist, my whatever-ologist – the process is easy, honors my time as much as it does my doctor’s, and winds up running smoothly for both sides of the transaction.

The dream starts this way: I realize it’s time for an initial or follow-up visit to any of my doctors. I open up my browser, point it to my doctor’s website, and log in to the secure patient portal. The one where I can see all my prescriptions, my personal health record, make an appointment (using the handy calendar function), request a prescription refill, ask the nurse or doctor a question via email, or download a PDF of my health record.

In my dream, using the handy scheduling function in the portal, I select a date and time for my appointment. The portal auto-populates that date and time with my name and insurance/contact info, since I logged in and it knows who I am. The system asks me if any information has changed. I click “no”. If I click “yes,” the next screen asks me to make the changes, and “submit”.

I select the reason for my visit from the list of appointment types. I enter any information I need to related to this appointment request (i.e. “Doc, I have this pain…”). Then I click “submit” and the system sends me a confirmation email or text (I picked which one I prefer when I set up my profile on the portal). It also schedules me for a blood draw in the week prior to the appointment, sending me a confirmation for a walk-in at the lab.

The scene in my dream shifts to the day of my doctor’s appointment. I’m scheduled to be seen at 11:00am. I get a text at 10:00am – or an email, whichever I selected when setting up my portal profile – saying that the doctor’s running about 30 minutes behind. I can either come in at 11:30am, or select one of the alternate appointment times in the text/email and be re-scheduled.

I select 11:30am, and I arrive a few minutes before that time. Signing in involves scanning a key tag, or a bar code on a mobile app – just like the one you use at your favorite supermarket – which lets everyone in the practice, from the receptionist to the doctor, know that I’m there, and on time.

If the admin staff needs to talk to me for any reason, they’ll see me on their screen (usually because, in the day-before review, they checked the “confirm insurance details” or “update pharmacy info” or “collect co-pay” radio button) and invite me to have a private conversation. By using my first name only. No sign-in sheet (potential HIPAA violation) or yodeling my full name across a crowded waiting room (definite HIPAA violation).

By the way, in my dream the co-pay is collected by the system without having to get me or the staff involved. I’ve given the practice my credit/debit card number, and signed a consent form to allow automatic collection of my payment when I scan in for my appointment at the office.

I take a seat in the waiting room…for about 5 minutes. I’m called – first name only – by the nurse, who takes me back to an exam room. I scan in again in the room, and s/he checks my blood pressure, temperature, and heart rate using equipment tied into the practice’s IT network. Since I scanned in, the readings are loaded into my record instantly.

S/he and I chat for a minute or two, and then I’m left alone to disrobe. The doctor arrives minutes later, and proceeds with my exam. S/he enters information on a tablet, but spends most of the time talking to me about how I’m feeling lately, the results from my blood work, what my exercise program is these days, how about those Giants/Redskins/Bears/whoever, and if I’ve had any meds side-effects that I haven’t mentioned.

The doc tells me that my blood work shows everything’s A-OK, all my numbers look good. I’m up a few pounds, time to hit the gym a little harder to stop expanding midriff syndrome in its tracks. (It’s a dream, but it could become a nightmare.)

Face time. Real face time. Only about 10 minutes, yet I feel like I’ve been listened to, and engaged with, by my doctor. I feel like I’m recognized as a human participating in my healthcare, not a meat-puppet on a conveyor belt.

OK, I’m awake now. In a world where all of the technology tools to turn my dream into reality exist…but aren’t being used in any consistent way. Why not? Usually, I hear “they’re too expensive” or, my personal fave, “my staff doesn’t like technology.”

Guys, it’s the 21st century. It’s time for some technology-enabled user interface/user experience – called UI/UX in the design business – across the entire medical industrial complex. All of the technology I’ve dreamed out loud above exists, but it’s not in wide use across all medical providers. And EHR systems still don’t talk to each other, so even if one of my doctors has all of the tech-enabled features I’ve outlined working in their system, the data in their system can’t show up in another of my doctor’s systems … even if they’re part of the same healthcare provider system, on the same EHR.

Time to storm the castle, with people – the ones called “patients” – demanding actual customer service from the healthcare delivery system? I think so. Who’s with me?

Casey Quinlan covered her share of medical stories as a TV news field producer, and used healthcare as part of her observational comedy set as a standup comic. So when she got a breast cancer diagnosis five days before Christmas in 2007, she used her research, communication, and comedy skills to navigate treatment, and wrote “Cancer for Christmas: Making the Most of a Daunting Gift” about managing medical care, and the importance of health literate self-advocacy. In addition to her ongoing work as a journalist, she’s a popular speaker and thought leader on healthcare system transformation from the ground up.